


Don't Call On Me: The Epilogues

by wesley2015remaster



Series: Don't Call On Me [2]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, kinda jork ish but not really, m&m are domestic, micky and mike's home for wayward homosexuals, there's. little hints., yay davy and peter are here now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28978311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesley2015remaster/pseuds/wesley2015remaster
Summary: A continuation of Don't Call On Me - how Peter and Davy get swept up in The Monkees, and the beginning of life in 1334 Beechwood.
Relationships: Micky Dolenz/Mike Nesmith
Series: Don't Call On Me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125530
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. Peter: Our House

**Author's Note:**

> i simply couldn't leave davy and peter out of this au, so here's this little spinoff with all of the monkees
> 
> once again: some miscellaneous stuff to get out of the way first!
> 
> the epilogues are split into two chapters - peter's chapter and davy's chapter. i did change up their ages a little bit just for the sake of plot and so their backstories can align and stuff. there'll be my drawings for the fic at the end of the chapter, like the original fic. also, i'm still a huge loser, so i've made more playlists! one for each character and their little character arcs and journeys.
> 
> mike's playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1T6E6AbtyyIDq73USxzHNV?si=BOUr2DM8SRCXCv5D347tlA
> 
> micky's playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1jaAc7XtEzLrrYBjvlsXxT?si=BdgDbmXWRSyXdeFY43im0w
> 
> peter's playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5SgeLZbFtRqjbzBhdbfkYe?si=QJHzjYnfRE-eRMTo1sXlsg
> 
> davy's playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3ioN5elhCPtOlda1OZ4kkd?si=t0aj91LhQmmuSIHvMaJHGg
> 
> okay that's all, enjoy

**_“Our house is a very, very, very fine house  
With two cats in the yard  
Life used to be so hard  
Now everything is easy ‘cause of you.”_ **

It had all been very quick. Micky remembered lounging in his and Mike’s apartment in the afternoon in late winter, mid-February, when Mike came bursting through the door, clutching a newspaper in hand, and an excited smile on his face.

“You know that house by the beach?” Mike began, almost huffing as he spoke, as if he had been in a rush back to the apartment and had lost his breath.

“Yeah?” Micky replied, unsure of what Mike was suggesting. He remembered the house, of course. Mike hadn’t been fond of it the first time they had seen it, but it had a charming quality that Micky liked, and he made sure to point it out every time they went to the beach. It had become something of an in joke between them.

“Well it’s up for lease!” Mike exclaimed, smoothing out the crinkled newspaper and passing it to Micky. Mike had circled the advertisement in black permanent marker. 1334 Beechwood.

“You don’t mean …”

“We could do it, Mick,” Mike assured him, grinning from ear to ear. “We could.”

“I mean … do we have the money?” Micky worried. “This is all very sudden.”

“I’ve been getting some good gigs lately,” Mike reasoned. He had obviously put some thought into it on the way home and knew the exact points Micky would bring up. “And we’ve got some money saved up for if we need it.”

“Would we even be allowed to move so quickly?” Micky asked. “What about your landlord?”

“I can figure something out,” Mike said, chewing his lip. He sat down on the couch beside Micky and placed an arm over his shoulders. “C’mon, Mick, don’t you think it would be nice to have some extra space? I could set up some proper equipment in the main room for my music, and you could learn how to garden and decorate the place with house plants – “ Mike kissed his cheek “ – Could even put in a few extra bookshelves for all them books you’re reading.”

“I borrow my books from the library,” Micky noted, but giggled and smiled as Mike kept laying light kisses all over his face and neck. “And I could buy houseplants no matter where we live.”

“We’d trip over ‘em here ‘n’ you know it, babe,” Mike scoffed, laying one last kiss on Micky’s brow bone. “If you don’t want to do it, I won’t keep bothering you about it, it’s fine.”

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ to,” Micky sighed, still smiling a little from Mike’s affections. “But … usually you’re the practical one.”

“I am being practical,” Mike said, holding Micky’s face in his hands. “But I want us to be happy, too. I … I wanna make a good life for you ‘n’ me. Why can’t I have both? Practicality and happiness?”

“Mike,” Micky sighed again, with more warmth this time. He placed his hands over Mike’s. “Anywhere with you is a good life. I don’t care if it’s in a shitty apartment or a shitty beach house.”

“Oh shut up you sappy little …” Mike didn’t finish his sentence because he was kissing Micky, grinning a little against his lips. Micky was slowly being leant back under Mike’s weight until he felt his back against the arm of the chair.

Mike’s hands were beginning to wander, callused fingers brushing against the skin underneath Micky’s shirt, when Micky pulled back from Mike’s kiss. “I want to move into that house,” he said, the words coming out in something of a gasp. “I want to live there with you.”

“You mean it?” Mike asked, looking into Micky’s eyes for a hint of sincerity. “You’re not just sayin’ that because – “ he looked down to their position on the couch, Micky beneath him with his belt half undone and shirt untucked “ – you’re feeling suggestable?”

“No,” Micky giggled, wringing his hands around Mike’s neck and trying to pull him closer once more. “I mean it, I do. I trust you. We can make it work.”

“Feeling sentimental today, huh?” Mike quipped. He kissed Micky’s jaw and kept fiddling with his belt buckle. “I trust you too, Mick.”

“Oh, _please_ stop talking,” Micky sighed, grabbing Mike’s face and crushing their lips together, and moving so Mike was underneath him as the two of them laughed.

Micky had gone with Mike to see inside the house later that week. They had met the landlord, Mr Babbit, who seemed suspicious of two long-haired bachelors looking for a place together but did not say anything about it to their faces. By the end of the week, they were organising a moving van for transporting their furniture and packing everything away in boxes. It had all been very quick.

And it _had_ all worked out. Everything had fallen into its right place, like fate.

Micky stepped out onto the balcony of their new house ( _their_ house – that felt good to think about) and breathed in the smell of the ocean. He wore only some old jeans and one of Mike’s flannel shirts, and he felt goosebumps rising on his arms, but still he did not mind. It would be nice in summer, with the sun shining through the windows in the morning and glasses of Mike’s lemonade and the sound of people on the beach, but he wasn’t in a rush. Summer would come eventually, and Micky wasn’t going to waste his time hoping it would get there sooner. Mike came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Micky’s torso and resting his chin on his shoulder. Micky breathed a deep, contented sigh. He had half a mind to tell Mike they ought to go inside, there could be someone watching, but it was still winter, and a bleak and windy day at that, and not a single soul was on the beach.

“We still have boxes to unpack,” Mike mumbled, squeezing Micky lightly and planting a gentle kiss on his shoulder.

They had set up most of the important furniture, but still ate their dinner on the floor anyway. The house seemed vast and empty, though Micky guessed that it would be filled with their clutter sooner or later. Maybe they would finally get a dining table.

They had placed the record player on the floor beside them, a stack of records from both Mike and Micky’s collections next to their now empty plates. An Eddy Arnold album of Mike’s was spinning ‘round, something that reminded Micky of his own parents listening to it in the quiet moment after dinner and the dishes were done, Micky’s mom resting her head on his dad’s shoulder. Micky wondered what his parents would say about this, their son playing house with Mike, listening to romantic country records and laying his head in another boy’s lap. It felt good. It felt right. He wondered if he would ever be able to tell them.

During ‘Take Me in Your Arms and Hold Me’, Mike stood, and took Micky by the hand, pulling him up with him, and holding him close. He held Micky’s waist with his hands and swayed. Micky held back a giggle and followed his lead.

“I didn’t think you liked to dance,” Micky teased, his hands resting on Mike’s shoulders. Mike smiled, a little shy.

“Felt like being corny,” he shrugged. “Sh, this is my favourite part.”

_You just don’t know how heartsick  
And lonesome I’ve been_

Micky couldn’t hear the record over Mike’s singing, but he didn’t need to. He would always prefer Mike’s version anyway. The record was probably a decade old and well-worn, and had been skipping here and there all night, but it played through without a hitch during that song.

Later, Micky was asking Mike to play for him. He was already up looking for where they had put the guitar. Mike had agreed, but only if Micky sang duet as well. So they went on like that, sitting on their spot on the floor, singing love songs for each other. Until Mike was starting something that Micky didn’t know. It was a new song, a Nesmith Original, that Micky had only heard brief snippets of as Mike was writing it. He hadn’t heard the lyrics until now.

_I’ve known you for a long time  
But I’ve just begun to care._

“Who’s the lucky girl in the song?” Micky asked, trying to play it straight, but unable to hide the grin on his face.

“Don’t be obtuse, Micky,” Mike scolded, but smiling as well despite himself. Micky pulled the guitar away and set it down on the ground, practically tackling Mike in a hug that turned into an eager kiss. Micky couldn’t deny that his eyes had gone watery – just a little.

They couldn’t get to the bedroom fast enough. They abandoned their plates, the records, and the guitar as they ascended the stairs, the house being filled with their laughter as they attempted to get upstairs on the narrow, spiralling staircase all while never stopping touching one another.

Micky laid down on their bed in their new room, in their new house, for the first time, with Mike’s hands and mouth all over him and _god_ what a way to make a house a home. He dug his hand in Mike’s hair – _it really was getting quite long, huh? –_ and wished he could feel like this every night. But he knew that wasn’t realistic. There would be quiet nights, and there would be slow nights, and the excitement would fade into gentle familiarity, but he couldn’t complain. Familiarity was still a good thing – maybe even better, he would find out when he got there – and right now, everything was where he wanted it to be. Mike had said that he didn’t think it was possible to feel completely and utterly satisfied, but Micky was feeling pretty damn close.

They had been living in Beechwood for a few weeks, and the novelty still hadn’t worn off. They had lived together in Mike’s apartment for a few months, but still, this felt like something new. It didn’t feel like he was just crashing at Mike’s place for a while, this felt _real._ This was _their_ bed, _their_ kitchen, _their_ furniture, _their_ house. It was a welcome sense of permanence.

They had fallen into a sense of routine, as he supposed most couples did (the novelty of referring to the two of them as a couple hadn’t worn off either), with Micky waking up early for his shift at the pharmacy, while Mike slept in after having a gig the night before. Or he didn’t have a gig, and he just slept in anyway. It was one of those mornings where Micky had to wake up early that he found himself in the kitchen, sitting down at their brand new dining table with a coffee mug in hand, dressed in Mike’s ‘Triumph’ shirt and a pair of boxers. He heard a guitar in the distance, and gentle singing. He assumed Mike had woken up and had gotten some early morning inspiration to write a song, but his guitar was downstairs, and the music was coming from outside the front door, not the bedroom.

Micky rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The song had ended, and the music had stopped for a moment. He walked to the door and opened it a crack, peering out to see what had been making the noise. When he looked down, his eyes landed on a kid with a beat up looking guitar and open case, sitting on the ground, leant up against the wall. Micky opened the door a little wider as the busker noticed him and smiled warmly.

“Hello,” he said simply, while tuning one of the strings. He had long blond hair that hung in his eyes and dirty clothes – pants that had holes in them, and boots that were scuffed and falling apart. “I’m Peter.”

“Hi,” Micky said back. He didn’t quite know how to engage with this boy playing guitar on his doorstep. “Micky.”

Peter didn’t seem bothered by his audience, and quietly plucked out a little melody on his instrument.

“What are you doing here so early?” Micky asked, addressing the elephant in the room. That seemed the most obvious place to start. Peter stopped playing for a moment and looked at Micky with wide and kind brown eyes.

“I thought people might enjoy having some music to wake up to,” Peter replied, with a tone that told Micky that his answer should have been obvious. “Music always brightens the rest of _my_ day, so I figured it might do the same.”

Micky decided he liked Peter. He figured it was hard to _dis_ like Peter. He had a way about him – naivety paired with a steadfast sort of kindness in the way he spoke and in the wide-eyed expression he wore in conversation. Micky told Peter to wait and ducked back into the house for some spare change and to grab the coffee he had left on the table. He managed to gather up about a dollar in coins, and went back out to Peter with his findings, dropping them in the open guitar case. They clattered together and hit the bottom with a thunk.

“You certainly brightened my day, Pete,” Micky told him, and Peter beamed back at him. He licked his top lip, an awkward gesture, and turned back to playing guitar. Micky sat in the doorway, sipping his coffee and listening to the music.

Eventually, Micky had to get dressed for work, and Peter was migrating to the beach to busk for a bigger crowd. Micky was sad to see him go.

Micky need not worry about his new acquaintance, however, for he was back on his doorstep the next morning. From there, it became a sort of routine. Not a very reliable routine, as some days Micky would see Peter, and others he wouldn’t seemingly at random, but a common occurrence, nonetheless. Micky would listen to Peter if he wasn’t in a hurry and give him a few coins if he had the money for it. Some days all he could drop in the case was a measly five cents.

“It ain’t much,” Micky apologised, Mike’s way of speaking rubbing off on him. “But it’s all I got.”

Peter seemed grateful anyway.

One morning, however, there was a more significant break in the routine. Micky hadn’t had work the day before and started his shift later in the morning than usual and had therefore joined Mike to one of his gigs the night before. Today was one of those rare moments where Mike was the first awake, and he was trying to figure out why he heard music coming from outside their door.

He opened the door, just as Micky had done weeks before, and was faced with Peter, sitting cross-legged with a guitar in his lap. Peter abruptly stopped playing as he caught Mike’s eye, and they stared at each other, both confused as to why they were looking at a stranger.

“What are you … what’re ya doing out here on the ground for?” Mike questioned him. “You oughtta be out on the beach, you’ll make more money that way.”

“I usually go to the beach later,” Peter shrugged. “But Micky usually gives me some money before he goes to work. But you’re not Micky.”

“Mick’s sleepin’,” Mike explained, rubbing his tired eyes and wishing he was doing the same. _Of course Micky would give his money to this kid._

Mike was a little peeved that Micky had been spending his money that way when they should be saving it. But then Peter, unperturbed by his company and less than warm introduction to Mike, went back to plucking out a sweet melody. He was a skilled guitarist, possibly even better than Mike, (but his ego wouldn’t let him admit that).

Mike took a good look at the boy on his doorstep, a proper look, and his anger at Micky wasting his money washed away. Despite the smile on his face, the kid was worn out, and Mike could tell. His fingernails were filthy, his hair hanging over his eyes, the soles of his shoes practically falling off. Mike had been there once, and if he were in the same position now he would have appreciated someone like Micky showing him a bit of kindness. Though he knew he would have been too proud to accept it as easily as Peter.

“I just made scrambled eggs,” Mike offered. “Would you like to come in?”

Peter smiled and sat up straight, moving his guitar beside him in one swift motion. “Boy, would I!”

Peter put his guitar in its empty case and followed Mike inside, setting the guitar down leaning against the table. He sat in the chair and looked around in wonder at the inside of the house he had never had the chance to see. He kept his hands in his lap, and absent-mindedly ran his tongue over his top lip. As Mike was serving the eggs, Micky came down the stairs, fully dressed, while yawning and stretching his arms. When he got to the bottom, he took a moment to stare at the scene before him – Mike at the kitchen bench, Peter sitting at their dining table.

“I see you’ve met Peter,” he chuckled.

“Is this the famous Michael?” Peter asked Micky as Mike set the plate of eggs in front of him.

“Did he not even tell you his name?” Micky asked, laughing breathily again. He looked over to Mike, incredulous, who blushed.

“I forgot,” Mike mumbled, staring at the kitchen counter.

Mike sat down with his own plate of eggs across from Peter and dug into his breakfast. Peter didn’t speak much, only hungrily scoffed down his plate of food. His fervent manner of eating reminded Mike of days long passed now.

Micky sat in one of the chairs at the small round table, in between Peter and Mike, and looked between the two plates.

“I s’pose there’s none for me,” he sighed, a dramatic tone in his voice that showed he was only teasing.

“I figured you’d still be sleeping,” Mike explained.

“Got called in early,” Micky said, stifling a yawn. Mike was holding his empty fork as he spoke, and Micky grabbed it from his hand and stole some food from his plate. Mike frowned but didn’t argue. He was holding back a smirk at the smug face Micky made at him as he ate.

Micky handed Mike back his fork and stood. “I gotta run,” he said, leaning over and running a hand through Mike’s hair and kissing the top of his head. Mike stiffened and Micky realised what he had done. He distanced himself from Mike as quickly as he could. Peter had been so quiet that he had forgotten he was even there. He was too used to being able to show affection for Mike in their home that he had forgotten that it was something they had to hide.

Every now and then Micky would be faced with a reminder just like this one, and the realisation always came with a heaviness that dawned on him throughout the day until he could come home, and Mike could hold him until he fell back into wilful ignorance. He wondered if his and Mike’s life together would always be this solitary. He would bear that burden if he had to, but still, it was rather lonely.

Mike coughed lightly and awkwardly. Peter hadn’t looked up from his plate.

“Bye,” Micky said quickly, with one last brush of his hand on Mike’s shoulder because he couldn’t help himself, before practically running out the door.

Mike was beet red. Peter hadn’t seemed to notice what had happened, despite him sitting only a metre away. Or maybe he was simply pretending to be ignorant in the face of an awkward situation, Mike couldn’t tell. As nice as Peter was, and as much as he wanted to help him, Mike just couldn’t read the guy and that left a bad taste in his mouth. He didn’t like not being able to understand things, and that included people.

Mike wished Micky didn’t have to go. He didn’t want to be left alone with Peter. He didn’t know Peter – he didn’t know what to say or do, he didn’t know how to fill in the gaps in conversation. He fiddled with his own hands, hoping Peter would start talking. He only kept eating silently.

“You’re a pretty good guitarist,” Mike said. Peter looked up from his plate. “I play alright myself, get a few decent gigs.”

“I know,” Peter nodded. “Micky talks about you a lot. He says you’re outta sight.”

“Oh,” Mike blushed. He had another flash of fear that Peter saw right through the two of them, but mostly he was just warm from realising Micky thought so highly of him. “Well, I get by …”

“I used to play a bunch of things,” Peter continued. “Banjo, piano, French horn … but bass was my favourite.”

“How come you don’t play anymore?” Mike asked.

“Had to leave ‘em behind when I left home,” Peter shrugged. He had gotten slightly reticent talking about it, but his easy-going nature never really left his demeanour. Though Mike saw a bit of himself in Peter, he also saw a lot of disparities there too. He would have been far too proud to admit that he had been down on his luck, even if it was obvious, like it was with Peter. “My dad kicked me outta home and it was all too much to carry, ya dig? So I hocked my bass for some extra cash.”

“How long ago was that?” Mike asked. He knew these things were hard to talk about for himself, but Peter seemed more matter-of-fact about it. ‘ _No big deal, it ain’t all that bad, ya dig?’_ Still, if Peter started clamming up, Mike wouldn’t press him.

“This time last year,” Peter shrugged. “I was seventeen. I’m eighteen now.”

“You been on the streets for a year, now?” Mike almost gasped. He couldn’t wrap his head around how a sweet, skinny and naïve kid like Peter had ever survived, let alone come out of it with even an ounce of kindness and hope still in him. Peter only shrugged again, tilting his head to the side so his long hair hung over into his eyes.

“I started out in New York, and kept moving ‘til I found myself here,” he explained. “Tried looking for work, but I’m not exactly the hiring kind – “ he gave out a little chuckle. He was a bit like Micky: he didn’t like having to be serious for so long. He tucked his hair behind his ear, unintentionally emphasising a factor of why he wouldn’t be the type people wanted to hire. “The longest place I stayed was at this farm in Kansas, where I helped out with the horses and some of the animals in exchange for a bed and a meal every night. I was there for a few months until – “ He caught himself before he said any more, his face freezing as he seemed to remember something. He did not continue with his story. “ – Well, anyway, I’ve been hitchhiking and making a little bit of bread where I can and people let me stay with them sometimes, so it’s not all bad. Things have worked out alright so far.”

Mike had to disagree. Peter’s standards were pretty low if he thought ‘not dying’ was the equivalent of things working out alright.

Peter had gone quiet.

“I was wondering,” Mike began, changing the subject. “If you would teach me that song you were playin’ before.”

By the time Micky came home, Peter had left. He and Mike had talked and played guitar with each other for about an hour until Peter left to go to the beach to busk. Mike had spent the rest of the morning and a bit of the afternoon mulling things over, thinking about how he would propose his idea to Micky. Finally Micky had come home, gotten changed out of his uniform and came back to the living room, flopping on the couch, his feet hanging over the arm of the chair and his head leaning on the arm on the opposite end.

Mike sat in the armchair across from him, fiddling with the loose threads and picking at the holes in the upholstery.

“I really wanna help Peter out, Mick,” Mike mumbled. Micky looked to him, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to continue. And he did. “We’ve got a spare bedroom, and if he wants to stay long-term, we can talk to Mr Babbit about it, I just … don’t like him bein’ out on the street. I just think if he had somewhere to stay he could stand more of a chance, ya know?” Micky was still looking at him, so he kept rambling on. “He hasn’t had anywhere to go for a year, did you know? And he hasn’t been able t’get any work because of it and I don’t like the idea of someone like him bein’ out there alone any longer than he’s gotta because one of these days someone is gonna try’n hurt him if they haven’t already.”

Micky gave a soft smile and rolled off the couch to stand behind the armchair, wrapping his arms around Mike’s neck in a hug. “You could have saved the speech, I would have said yes,” Micky told him, and kissed his cheek. “You’re cute when you’re being charitable. And I like Peter, I wanna help him too.”

Mike tilted his head back to look at Micky with a light smile plastered on his face. “I love you,” he said with a soft laugh, and leaned back further to kiss the curly haired boy who was still embracing him. He marvelled at how they had ever managed to find each other and wondered why he had spent so long trying to love someone else. “I was thinking, if Peter wants to stay, we could save up some extra money and buy him a bass guitar. He said he used to play, but he had to sell his on the road.”

“We’d have two guitarists and a bassist,” Micky mused, catching Mike’s drift. He had been picking guitar back up under Mike’s tutelage. “Not much of a band without a drummer.”

“Well,” Mike began with a smirk that said he had an idea. “If we save up for a bit longer, we could afford a kit. You ever thought about being a drummer?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Micky sighed teasingly, pulling back to stand up straight, his hands lingering on Mike’s shoulders. “But I think you know my answer.”

“Are we … Will we tell him about us?” Mike asked.

“He hasn’t even moved in yet,” Micky chuckled, kissing Mike on the top of the head as he had done that morning. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Micky didn’t have work the next day, but he had gotten into the habit of waking up early anyway so he would still be able to say hello to Peter. Mike was still asleep next to him, his arm laying over Micky’s chest, his dark hair splayed over his pillow, his lips slightly parted. It was a shame to wake him.

Micky shifted underneath the weight of Mike’s arm and reached over to shake his shoulder. Mike’s eyes opened, bleary and blinking. He unwrapped his arm from around Micky to rub sleep out of them. His nose and eyes scrunched as he adjusted to being awake.

“Peter’ll probably be here soon,” Micky told him. Mike nodded with his eyes still scrunched.

They had both gotten dressed before descending the spiral staircase where they heard, as expected, Peter playing outside their door. Mike took the lead, opening the door to greet him. This had been his idea, after all.

Peter stopped playing and smiled at the sound of the creaky old door opening. “Hi, Mike.”

“Hi, Pete,” Mike said in return. He bit his lip, his hand still resting on the doorknob. “Did you want to come in? Micky and I want to ask you something.”

Peter looked confused but nodded and grabbed up his guitar by the neck and followed Mike inside anyway. Micky was on the couch, so Mike sat beside him, and Peter took the armchair. Mike was conscious of how awkward this felt, and he hoped Peter didn’t think of it much like an interrogation. He was trying not to seem threatening. Mike looked to Peter, then to Micky, who nodded.

“We were thinking,” Mike started. “We’ve got a, uh, spare bedroom here and we think you’re a groovy guy, so if you would like to stay with us for as long as you like, you’re welcome to.”

Mike was careful of how he worded things just in case Peter took offense. He knew that he did not like feeling pitied and didn’t like taking charity himself. But Peter didn’t seem to mind at all.

“You would share a room with Micky? Just so I could have a room for myself?” Peter asked, his face full of innocent wonder. Micky snorted. Mike, though he was afraid Micky’s reaction would have either given them away or be seen as mocking to Peter, had to fight smirking himself.

“Believe me, it’s absolutely _no_ trouble,” Micky joked. Mike had to fight harder to keep a straight face.

“So, wha’d’ya say?” Mike asked. Peter stared at the ground for a moment, licked his top lip, and thought about the offer.

“It really wouldn’t be any trouble?” Peter asked, looking at Mike once more.

“None at all, bud,” Mike assured him. “We like you a lot, Peter. You’re our friend.”

“It’s been a while since anyone’s said that to me,” Peter said, almost whispering it, with a shy smile on his face. Then he stood up. “Wait here.”

Peter walked out of the house, and neither Micky nor Mike waited as they followed him to the door, Micky peering over Mike’s shoulder to see what he was doing. Peter reached into one of the bushes outside the house and pulled out a leather bag that he swung over one shoulder.

“This is everything I own,” Peter explained, strangely cheery. “I hope you don’t mind that I hide it in your bushes during the day.”

Mike shook his head. He had no words to reply with. It seemed wildly irresponsible to him. _How had this kid ever survived?_

The three of them went back inside and Micky started making toast for breakfast. Mike liked his fairly burnt, Micky liked his lightly baked. He didn’t know how Peter liked his toast, so he went for a nice middle ground between the two. Regardless, Peter seemed grateful and wolfed down the food as soon as it appeared in front of him. Micky felt a pang of sympathy.

“Are you … hungry a lot, Peter?” Micky asked. Peter shrugged.

“I gotta use most of the money I make on food,” he said, not exactly answering the question. “I don’t have much left after that.”

The more Micky learned about Peter the gladder he was that Mike had proposed letting him stay. Peter stayed in the house for most of the day, showing Mike some songs on guitar and teaching him how to play them. When Micky said he was going grocery shopping, Peter asked if he could come with. Peter was a good companion. Micky hated grocery shopping by himself and usually asked Mike to come with him when he could (he would die of boredom otherwise). But Peter was a pretty alright substitute for Mike. He enjoyed riffing off Peter in ways he didn’t with Mike. With him and Mike, their conversations were witty and teasing, while Peter was fairly clueless and didn’t pick up on these types of jokes well. But that didn’t matter much, because his naivety only provided new opportunities for jokes he hadn’t gotten the chance to make with Mike.

Micky stopped off on the way to the grocery store to buy Peter some new clothes, and his eyes had gone wide and shocked at the act of kindness. He had taken the pile of clothing carefully, trying his best to treat it with respect as a way to show his gratitude. When they got home he tried them on and showed Mike and Micky how they fit with a smile on his face.

Money was a little tight as they adjusted to having another mouth to feed, but eventually Micky was picking up more shifts at the pharmacy and Mike had gotten a run of fairly well-paying gigs and they were hitting their stride as they always did in the end.

Mike was a little jumpy at first. He insisted they had to be more careful. But the two of them couldn’t stay away from each other for too long and slowly started taking more and more risks.

There were a few close calls. Micky laying his head on Mike’s lap without thinking and having to commit to the decision for fear of looking more suspicious if he suddenly shot back up when he realised Peter was there. Kisses in the kitchen that Peter almost walked in on. Peter coming into their bedroom and seeing that there was only one bed. But Peter never said anything about it, and Micky and Mike could never be sure if they were in the clear or not.

Peter had been trying to land a job, but to no avail. He was always unsuccessful for one reason or another. He kept busking as a way to make a little bit of spare change, doing anything he could to alleviate the burden on Micky and Mike. When it became summer he got more business, but it also got hotter and Peter often came back sunburnt and was getting new freckles every day. Mike had to remind him to take sunscreen before he left, and Micky often went out to the beach in the afternoon to check if he was using it.

Eventually, Micky talked to the manager of the pharmacy and was able to land Peter a trial shift, with Micky showing him the ropes.

It was safe to say that Peter would not be getting the job.

Peter was clumsy and awkward with customers, stuttering and unsure of what to say to them. But that was the area he was best in, with his kindness and ingenuity allowing him to garner sympathy when he messed up. It was everything else that wasn’t working. He wasn’t good with money and quick maths, and he was forgetful. When organising the store he couldn’t remember where things had to go, and he accidentally mixed them up so when Micky needed them he couldn’t find them. All the different brands of medicine and the long scientific sounding names of prescriptions went over his head and confused him, and Micky had to keep a close eye on him to make sure he wasn’t giving customers the wrong things. Even cleaning, which should have been an easy task, was needlessly difficult, as Peter attempted to mop the floor, but had forgotten that he needed water to do so.

The real kicker was when Peter was stocking shelves and accidentally knocked one of them over, bottles and boxes and pills clattering across the ground. Micky almost yelled. He hated to admit that he was frustrated. He had tried really hard to get Peter this job, and he so desperately wanted to help him out. But Peter kept messing things up and it was out of Micky’s control.

But this was Peter, and it was impossible to be mad at him for long. Micky’s anger dissipated in an instant when Peter collapsed on the ground amongst the mess he had made and held his head in his hands. Micky crouched next to him, balancing on the balls of his feet, and placed a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, Pete,” he said softly. “We can clean it up.”

Peter shook his head, still hiding his face. “I know I’ve been messing up. I’m sorry Micky.”

“You’re just stressed out and it’s getting to you,” Micky reasoned. Peter looked up, his eyes watery.

“I really wish I could help you and Mike out,” he said, his voice whimpering slightly. “I wish I weren’t so useless.”

“You’re not useless, Peter,” Micky assured him. “You help Mike out with his songs and his guitar. You help me clean the house, so we get it done much quicker than if it was just me and Mike. You make the best root beer soup I’ve ever known – “ Micky added that last one to lighten the mood and succeeded when Peter gave a small chuckle. “Though I don’t know many people who would even think to make root beer soup.”

Peter seemed to have cheered up by a small margin, but still didn’t look convinced.

“I’ll tell you what,” Micky began. “We’ve only got an hour left ‘til we can go home. We’ll finish up here and then I’ll take you somewhere on the way to the pad.”

Peter looked confused but nodded and let Micky pull him up to stand. In no time they had cleaned up the mess, and Micky was handing over the keys to the register to his co-worker who had come to take over the store. Then they were in the car and Micky was driving Peter to a destination he had not revealed yet.

He stopped outside a record store, walking in and up to the counter with Peter trailing behind him. The person at the counter was a friend of Micky’s, and Micky was playing salesman to him, selling him on the idea of speaking to his boss about Peter. He was doing a good job in the role, too, making just enough casual conversation that Peter could join in on to butter the guy up. He added in little bits of Peter’s plight as a way to get the guy to sympathise, he was listing all of Peter’s qualities he could bring to the job (some of them not exactly true). He was being quite persuasive, and it didn’t take much to convince the clerk.

By the time they were leaving, Peter lingering to take passing glances at the records available, the clerk was promising he would do all he could to convince his boss to give Peter a shot.

“You didn’t have to do that for me, Mick,” Peter said in the car, blushing a little.

“So? I wanted to,” Micky shrugged. “You’re not useless, Pete, you just gotta find a place you fit.”

Peter may not have been good with maths or medicine and prescriptions, but if there was anything he did know, it was music. The next week, Micky’s friend was calling them to say Peter had a job interview with the manager, and by the next he was hired and told Micky and Mike that he was doing well. He was good with the customers, letting them know his recommendations, and pointing them to all sorts of genres and artists he thought they would enjoy, some they had never even thought to look into. He could have talked to some customers for hours, but luckily he was aware that he couldn’t.

Peter working meant that he was out of the house more often, which also came with Micky and Mike taking more risks when they thought Peter was gone. Such was how Peter came to find them, Mike on top of Micky, Micky’s hands on Mike’s waist, as they kissed on the couch. Safe to say they had lost track of time and had forgotten Peter would be home so soon. Mike turned beet red as he heard the door open and close and looked up from his position on the couch. There was no subtlety about this. There was no way he could come up with an explanation for this one. And still, Peter kept walking straight to his room as if he had saw nothing. But Mike had seen Peter quickly averting his gaze. There was no way he hadn’t seen.

Mike stood, tucking his shirt back in, still blushing with embarrassment. He looked down at Micky, still on the couch, who looked equally mortified.

“I think we oughtta tell him,” Mike said.

“He probably already knows,” Micky objected, grabbing Mike’s hand and holding on to the ends of his fingers.

“We still oughtta clear the air,” Mike reasoned in return. For once, Micky let Mike get his way, standing beside him, not letting go of his hand. Micky still didn’t let go as they stood at Peter’s door, though he did hide their intwined hands behind Mike’s back. Partly because it felt awkward, being intentionally open about his feelings for Mike, and partly because it felt like a childish gesture, to show his nervousness like that. It felt stupid to be scared of what Peter would say. He had never witnessed Peter say an unkind thing about anyone in all the months they had been living together. But still, people could be unpredictable about these things.

“We need to talk to you, Peter,” Mike said. Peter’s room was dark, and Micky could hardly see him, sitting on the end of his bed. “About what you may have saw …”

“I know about you ‘n’ Micky,” his voice came from within the room. Micky leaned over Mike’s shoulder to look at Peter. It felt like he was eavesdropping on a conversation he was supposed to be a part of.

“Well, why didn’t you say anything?” Mike asked, incredulous, but his tone a little more good natured at the lack of hostility in Peter’s voice.

“I figured you didn’t wanna talk about it,” Peter shrugged. Micky’s eyes were adjusting, and he could see Peter’s expression, innocent and gentle, an apologetic smile on his face. Mike lead Micky into the room, and Micky let go of his hand. Mike sat on the bed beside Peter while Micky sat on the chair in the corner of the room.

Mike was having a hard time processing how Peter could be so nonchalant about it. After being beaten and bullied in Texas just for rumours, and after everything that had happened with Johnny, it was a bit of a culture shock when people simply didn’t care.

Micky sat with his knees tucked to his chest, waiting for someone to say something. He didn’t have to wait long.

“My dad kicked me out because he saw me with a boy,” Peter said, matter-of-factly, but without his usual smile that lingered on his face. “And the people on the farm … well, I had to leave because they found out me and their son … So, I would have been a bit of a hypocrite if I said anything, wouldn’t I?”

Micky raised his eyebrows. Peter said things simply and saw them the same way. He wasn’t one for complex scenarios, but he was able to connect one dot to another if it was laid out plainly in front of him, and that leant him to being strangely eloquent when the time was right.

Mike’s mouth had opened into a small ‘oh’. “I’m sorry that happened to you, buddy.”

“It’s alright now,” Peter shrugged, not enjoying how the focus had turned onto his own miseries. Maybe he and Peter were a little more similar than he had thought. “I just wonder if they miss me every now and then.”

Neither Mike nor Micky were sure whether he was talking about his parents or the relationships that had been broken up because of other people.

Micky was relieved that they were sure Peter was okay with it. They still had to hide things out in public, but they had the tranquillity of their home back after (albeit unsuccessfully) hiding from Peter for months. Things felt like they were truly falling into place, finally.

With Peter making some money, it was easier for Micky and Mike to keep saving. Summer was transitioning into fall by the time they had enough money for a bass, a drum kit and even an extra amp. They waited for a day Peter was working while Micky was not and went to the music store together.

It was a rush to get everything set up in time before Peter came home. Micky wanted to wrap it all up like a Christmas present, but that would have taken far too long, especially with the drum kit, so he settled for slapping ribbons on everything that he could.

Micky had barely placed the last bow on the cymbal when Peter entered the pad. Micky and Mike stood upright near the space they had cleared for all of the instruments and amps they own, waiting for Peter to notice them. He did, eventually, after he took his coat off and set his keys down.

“Hey guys,” he said. Micky had an impish grin on his face as he waited for Peter to notice what they had done. He didn’t.

He sat on the couch, turning on the tv. When neither Micky nor Mike moved from their position, he looked to them. “What’s up?”

“Notice anything different?” Micky asked, gesturing with his hands and still smiling. Peter scanned the pad, seeming to skip over the drum kit behind Micky. He shook his head.

Mike sighed and moved from his spot, grabbed up the bass and handed it to Peter. “We got you this.”

Peter’s eyes went wide as he saw the instrument. Then they started welling with tears as he took it in his hands carefully, feeling it over. It was a beautiful instrument. With light touches he ran his hands over the strings, flipped it around a few times, inspecting it. He set it down, leaning against the couch, and pulled Mike into a tight hug. Mike hadn’t been expecting it, but he warmed up to it in time. Micky, not liking to be left out, skipped over and joined the hug.

“Micky’s gonna learn drums,” Mike explained from within the hug. “And we were wonderin’ if you wanted to start up a band.”

Peter pulled away. “I’d love to,” he said, smiling sweetly. He pulled Mike back in and kissed him on the cheek, then did the same to Micky, who fake gagged, which made Peter giggle. “But what’ll we be called?”

Mike blushed and scratched the back of his head. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead …”


	2. Davy: Come On In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on in  
> You know you’re welcome here  
> Aw, come on in,  
> It’s been a long, long year.”

The weather was getting colder the further into fall it got, and Micky had started wearing his cardigan to work again. It was only late October, but there was a cold spell and Micky was a home-grown Californian, meaning he didn’t handle the cold particularly well at all. He was glad to be avoiding the wind as he stocked shelves at the pharmacy.

He had just finished organising the shelves and had grabbed the broom to start sweeping when he heard a clammer outside the store. Micky’s stomach dropped at the sound of yelling and something slamming into the wall outside and then the pavement. _I don’t get paid enough for this shit._ Still, he went outside to break up the fight anyway.

He realised he was still holding the broom as he was faced with a group of four teenagers in the alleyway, one of them held by the shirt against the wall, his toes barely touching the ground. None of them had seen Micky, as the kid against the wall was punched in the face and then his stomach. He crumpled to the ground, curling himself into a ball to protect his face, and still the other kids kept kicking him.

“Hey!” Micky cried out as he broke out of his shock at the scene. None of them seemed to notice him. “HEY!”

Micky had gotten too close. One of the teenagers had heard him and swung at him out of instinct, socking him in the mouth. He stumbled back, touching fingers to his stinging lip. They had blood on them when he pulled them away. He swung blindly with his broom, hitting _something_ but he wasn’t sure what.

“IF YOU DON’T SCRAM I’M CALLING THE FUCKIN’ COPS!” He yelled, finally getting the attention of the attackers. He caught the gaze of one of the teenagers, his eyes manic and wild like a deer in headlights. Micky thought he saw him motion to his friends; he wasn’t sure. Everything had been so quick, and he was too full of adrenaline to remember much of the fine details. But before long, they had disappeared, the only thing that proved they had ever been there being Micky’s fat lip and the kid still crumpled in a heap in the alleyway, whimpering quietly.

Micky dropped the broom, heard it clatter against the concrete pavement, and approached the boy. When he heard Micky’s footsteps and felt his hand on his back he flinched away. “They’re gone. It’s okay.”

The kid removed his face from between his elbows and sat up, looking at Micky with big brown eyes and furrowed eyebrows in an expression of both fear and anger. He had a Beatle-esque hair cut that was messed up from being tossed around so much, and his face was in bad shape from the fight, with a split lip that matched Micky’s own, a bloody nose and a cut above his eyebrow.

Micky helped him stand up. The boy dusted off his pants, unsure if he should thank Micky or just leave. He didn’t have time to make his decision because Micky was saying, “Let me patch you up inside.” He gestured to the drug store “My shout.”

The kid followed him inside but said nothing. He stood near the counter with his arms crossed as Micky perused the shop for supplies. He was leaning heavily on one leg and had a limp when he was walking.

“Sit up there,” Micky told him, gesturing to the counter. Micky had grabbed up a first aid kit, a bottle of water and a Coke, and handed the third item to the kid, who did not open the bottle. He brought out a gauze from the kit and poured water on it, using it to clean the blood from the boy’s face. “You can drink the Coke; I didn’t hand it to you for nothin’. Food’ll make you feel better, but there’s none in the store so that’s all I got.”

The kid stared Micky down, and Micky raised his eyebrows in return. Whatever battle he was fighting, he lost, and he tentatively opened the bottle with his teeth and took a sip. He looked glum and kept stiff underneath Micky’s hands.

“What’s your name, kid?” Micky asked. When the kid didn’t reply he said, “Mine’s Micky.”

“David,” he said at last in a heavily accented voice, and Micky realised he hadn’t heard him speak until now. “Davy.”

“You English?” Micky asked. Once again, Davy didn’t reply. Micky turned back to the first aid kit and brought out antiseptic wipes. “This is gonna hurt.”

Davy prepared himself for the sting he knew was coming. He didn’t want to look even weaker to this stranger who was helping him after the embarrassment of being beaten in an alleyway. And after a failed pickpocketing attempt too, no less, though Micky didn’t know that part. But he couldn’t stop himself from wincing just a little. He gripped the Coke bottle.

“What happened out there with those guys?” Micky asked, continuing with the onslaught of questions to fill the silence. Davy figured he shouldn’t tell him about his attempt at thievery. He wondered if Micky would still be kind to him if he found out he probably deserved what he got, if only because he had been stupid enough to try and fail at it. He kept quiet, and Micky moved on to another topic. He had brought out band aids and was laying one over Davy’s eyebrow.

“I can drive you home after my shift,” Micky offered. He moved on to cleaning up Davy’s bloody knuckles. He had obviously gotten a few punches in himself before he went down.

“I can walk,” Davy protested, finally speaking.

“No way, Jose,” Micky chuckled. “Those guys could still be out there, waiting for when you’re alone. Let me take you home.”

“No,” Davy argued.

“What do you mean, _no_?” Micky shot back. “Man, I’m doin’ you a favour.”

“I don’t _want_ your favours,” Davy replied.

“Tough,” Micky frowned. “Because I wanna drive you home.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause I haven’t got one!” Davy admitted loudly, almost yelling. Micky seemed taken aback.

“Well, I have,” Micky replied. Davy seemed confused. “So, I’m taking you there.”

“You can’t just kidnap me!” Davy protested. Micky leaned on the counter next to Davy’s knees.

“You can run away when we get there all you want,” Micky shrugged. “But come on, humour me.”

Davy glared at Micky as he hopped off the countertop and marched out the store. Micky’s face fell. He had figured Davy was stubborn, but he was used to Mike’s brand of stubbornness where he made a fuss and refused but always ended up being persuaded in the end. He hadn’t expected Davy to simply leave.

Except he didn’t get very far. He crouched in the alley, trying to decide what he could possibly do next. He was still holding the half empty Coke bottle, and he unconsciously passed it from one hand to the other. There were spots of his own blood dried up on the ground to the left of his shoe. He supposed he had been rude.

Davy sighed to himself and heard footsteps nearby.

“I didn’t think you’d go very far,” Micky said in a maternal-sounding tone.

Davy didn’t meet Micky’s eye.

He hadn’t noticed he had been shivering as he sat outside the shop until he felt Micky wrapping his cardigan around his shoulders. It was then that Davy looked at him, finding him smiling at him. Micky had goosebumps on his arms but didn’t mention it.

Somehow, Davy found himself sitting cross-legged on the counter once again, watching Micky work and evading his attempts at small talk as much as he could. Somehow, he found himself in Micky’s car as the sun was going down. His ribs ached, his knuckles stung, his nose was dully throbbing, and his eye felt like it was beginning to bruise – it was safe to say he didn’t have the energy to argue at that point. He would be surprised if anyone could argue against Micky’s persistence.

Micky had told him about his roommates, but he wasn’t prepared for them to be so … overbearing. Well, one of them was, at least. When they came into the kitchen, a tall, lanky man with dark hair – Davy assumed he was Mike – turned and laid his eyes on Davy. He looked confused, about to ask who he was and why he was there, when he also saw Micky (and in turn saw his split lip). His eyes widened and he rushed to stand closer, placing his hands over Micky’s face, running his thumb over the swollen area and the flecks of dried blood as Micky winced.

“Mick, what happened?” He worried. “Are you okay? Did you get into a fight? Did this kid hurt you?”

“Mike slow down,” Micky chuckled, placing a hand over Mike’s wrist and smiling brightly at him. Davy knew a smitten expression when he saw one. “I just forgot to clean it up, ‘s’all.”

“Micky,” Mike chided, pursing his lips. Micky rolled his eyes playfully.

“I wasn’t the one fighting,” Micky explained, gesturing to Davy. Mike turned his attention back to him, looking him over while still not letting go of Micky.

“Are you two together or something?” Davy asked. Mike blushed bright red and pulled his hands back. Micky opened his mouth, presumably to protest or for damage control, but Mike got there first.

“Yeah, we are,” he said defensively, frowning, but still blushing. Davy raised his hands and shrugged – _no problem here._

Micky lightly shoved Mike on the shoulder and pointed to the patio. They wordlessly walked outside, likely to discuss Davy, and left him alone in the house. Unsure of what to do, Davy wandered to the couch and sat down. He hadn’t heard a door opening somewhere else in the house.

Peter had come out of his room to say hello to Micky but found he and Mike weren’t there. Instead he laid his eyes on Davy, slouched on the couch with his arms crossed, trying to make himself smaller (which was pretty damn small). The boy on the couch hadn’t heard Peter approach; when Peter tapped him on the shoulder he jumped and whipped his head around with wild eyes.

“Sorry,” Peter winced. Davy scowled at him and slouched back against the couch. He turned his gaze to the wall in front of him and did not look at Peter as he came to sit beside him. “Are you a friend of Micky’s?”

“No,” Davy snipped.

“Oh,” Peter said. “A friend of Mike’s?”

“No.”

“A friend of _mine?”_ he gasped, worried he had had a bout of amnesia and forgotten who this stranger on his couch was.

“What? _No,”_ Davy replied. The blond man, who Davy had correctly assumed to be Micky’s other roommate named Peter, seemed genuinely concerned.

“Are you sure?” Peter asked. Why didn’t any of these people take the hint that Davy just wanted them to leave him alone? “Because if you’re not a friend of Micky’s, or Mike’s, or mine …”

“Look, I’m not in the mood to chat right now,” Davy snapped.

“That’s okay,” Peter shrugged, seemingly unbothered by Davy’s rudeness. “We can just sit if you want.”

Outside, Micky was giving Mike the run down on the situation.

“ … He got into a fight with some guys and I scared ‘em away but I got hit in the process,” he had explained. “I cleaned him up in the shop and I asked if I could take him home, but he hasn’t got one, so I took him here.”

“So you just … pulled some kid off the street?” Mike asked, biting the nail of his thumb.

“Well you did the same with Peter so I sorta guessed it was my turn,” Micky joked. He grew a little more serious, grabbing Mike’s hand and fiddling with his fingers. “Just let him stay for dinner? Please? I don’t think he’s had a decent meal in a while.”

“Micky,” Mike pulled him closer, his hands on his waist. He looked to the glass door, but Davy was not looking at them. He looked back to Micky. “Of course I’ll let him stay for dinner. I’d let him move in if it meant that much to you. What’s one more roommate to look after?”

Micky smiled and kissed him chastely, quickly.

Inside the atmosphere was tense (mostly on Davy’s behalf; Peter seemed unbothered). He looked grumpy and uncomfortable, though Micky hadn’t seen him as anything other than grumpy and uncomfortable.

Mike cleared his throat. “I’m almost done makin’ dinner, if you’d like to join,” he offered.

Davy stared at him for a moment, brows furrowed, weighing his options. He was hungry. He was sore. He was tired. He was almost too proud to say yes.

“Fine,” he mumbled. Micky smiled.

It was hot dogs for dinner that night – Davy wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. Still, he was grateful for food, and it was better than some of the things he had had recently. And after dinner, Micky even brought out a tub of vanilla ice cream and scooped some into a bowl for him. He could hardly believe it.

There was enough ice cream for all of them, and they all brought their bowls over to sit in front of the tv. Davy lingered at the dining table.

“Are ya gonna stay for a movie, Davy?” Peter asked.

Davy wanted to say no. He was feeling guilty about eating their food and giving nothing in return, and he felt ashamed that he had needed their help at all. And on top of that, he didn’t exactly trust them, even after they had all been so kind, and that made the guilt worse. But he still had his ice cream to finish (he didn’t want to waste food) and he didn’t know how to get out of this situation (it’s not like he could just tell them he was going home) and he wanted nothing more than a warm place to sleep (if they even let him stay the night). He wanted to say no, but then again, he wanted to say yes.

Peter moved to sit on the floor, leaving the armchair free, and Davy took it. He sat with his bowl in his lap and his knees up.

He was feeling wearier and wearier by the minute, and it only got worse for him once he had finished his ice cream and couldn’t focus on it to keep himself awake.

It was dark in the living room and none of them had realised Davy had nodded off until the movie was over. Mike stood to collect everyone’s bowls and spoons to wash up but stopped when he got to Davy. Micky had turned on the lights, and Mike saw he was sleeping, his hands still around the bowl but not gripping it, and his head tilted back to lean against the back of the armchair. He looked sweet when he was asleep, the furrow of his brow and the hardness of his gaze gone. He looked childlike and peaceful.

Mike took the bowl from his hands, which fell limp to his lap, and set the dishes down into the sink. He returned to the chair and gently lifted Davy from his curled position on the armchair and laid him down on the couch. Davy was small and light, which made this process a lot easier than carrying Micky.

Peter and Micky had picked up on what was happening and had gathered up a spare blanket and pillow together, Micky tucking Davy in, and Peter carefully lifting Davy’s head to place the pillow underneath. Davy stirred, curled in on himself on his side with his knees to his chest once more, but did not wake. He was still wearing Micky’s cardigan.

Peter did not sleep as well as Davy did, solely because he had taken it upon himself to check up on him throughout the night. He made sure to pour a glass of water and place it on the coffee table should he wake up thirsty. Davy did not wake throughout the night, or even so much as turn in his sleep as far as Peter was aware. He was a little paranoid that something was wrong because of it, but Davy was definitely still breathing (Peter had made sure to check). It seemed silly, even to Peter, to be so concerned over a circumstance so unlikely, but then again, it wasn’t _impossible_ , and the events surrounding Davy and how he came to be sleeping on his couch were entirely mysterious to Peter. Nobody had explained to him what had happened.

It was early that morning, when Peter was doing his hourly round that he found Davy had gone. He only had to worry for a second, because when he turned from the couch, he saw him outside on the balcony with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. When Peter stepped outside to join him he jumped at the sound of the door opening. He said nothing as he regained his composure, turning his gaze back to the beach. Peter sat beside him, and Davy did not say hello.

“You scared me,” Peter said. “I thought you had run away.”

“I thought you would have wanted me to leave. Did they even tell you why I’m here?” Davy asked, probably the most words he had said to Peter, or any of them at all, really.

“No,” Peter answered.

“I tried to steal something, got beat up pretty bad for it,” Davy said. He didn’t know why he had told Peter that so easily. Maybe he felt he had to prove that Peter shouldn’t want him around. He had been on a particularly self-destructive streak lately. “Micky helped me out. Who knows why.”

“Well, Micky’s an excellent judge of character,” Peter shrugged. Davy didn’t know what to do with that comment. “How old are you, Davy?”

“Eighteen in December,” he replied, picking at the thread of the blanket and wearing his usual glum expression.

“I’m nineteen in February,” Peter said, though Davy hadn’t asked him. “When did you move to America?”

“I was fifteen,” he answered, not adding any other details, hoping Peter would just drop it. He didn’t.

“Do you have any family you can go to?” Peter asked. Davy winced.

“No,” he said, his snappy tone from the night before coming back.

“Why not?”

“Because they’re in England,” Davy said. He didn’t mention why he had come to America alone, without his grandfather. He didn’t mention the promises of success from managers who had said they would look after him, the money that he had never seen, a chance at a record deal that ended up being fruitless. He didn’t mention how he had stumbled and fell – worse he had crashed and burned and been abandoned, and he hadn’t even turned sixteen yet. He hoped Peter wouldn’t ask.

“I don’t know where my family is,” Peter said, so nonchalantly that it shocked him. Here he was trying his very best to keep his failures as close to his chest as he could. Davy felt a little guilty for being so mean to him. More guilty than usual, that is. “We moved around a lot, you know? Last time I saw them was New York, but who knows where they could be now. I’m not really welcome back, anyway, so it’s not like it matters.”

“How come?” Davy asked, though he knew if he had been in Peter’s shoes he would not have answered. Such was the curse of human curiosity, he supposed.

“I was a bit useless, a bit scatterbrained,” Peter chuckled. “But mostly because I’m … what do the British call it? A poof.”

“You _and_ Micky _and_ Mike? What kind of house have I gotten myself into?” Davy half-joked, half exclaimed out of surprise, until he realised that it was probably an inappropriate comment to make. He didn’t want to offend the people who had helped him out – on such a personal level at least. “I’m sorry – “ he let out a sigh “ – That was a little out of line.”

“It’s okay, it’s not like I haven’t heard worse,” Peter shrugged, good naturedly, but it wasn’t like he looked exactly happy about it. “And I still dig chicks, you know? I just don’t particularly care if they’re a chick or not. I think Micky’s the same, but he’s only really had eyes for Mike as long as I’ve known him. Mike’s as queer as they come, though.”

“Have you ever … been with a bloke?” Davy asked, not sure why he was sticking on this topic, or even bothering to continue talking at all. He didn’t want to become attached to these people. He supposed it was easier than talking about himself, though he guessed Peter would find a way to turn the conversation back onto him somehow.

Peter laid down on the ground beside Davy and looked to the sky. “Yeah, a few,” he answered. “I find it easier than with girls. I always worry about trying to be what people expect me to be with girls – what her parents will think of me, if I’ll be good enough for her, ya dig? I get so caught up I can’t even talk to them in the first place. It helps too that all the guys I’ve been with started out as friends. None of us really knew what would happen ‘til it did, and by then we’d gotten past the talking phase.” Peter let out a pleasant little chuckle that sounded a little sad, too, behind the sweetness of his laugh. Nostalgic was the word for it, Davy supposed.

“Oh,” Davy murmured. He had never had much of a problem with girls and couldn’t much understand Peter’s plight. He liked the familiarity of his crushes on girls, like following a script he had read hundreds of times over. Or he supposed it was like reading his favourite book, where the twists and turns of the plot still managed to make him excited no matter how many times he had experienced them. “I had never thought about being with both. I suppose I grew up in a fairly conservative area.”

“Have you ever thought about going with ‘blokes’?” Peter asked. He said ‘blokes’ in an imitation of Davy’s accent.

Davy laid down next to Peter and looked at him, with his golden hair (brown-looking in the weak morning light) falling around him, spread across the ground and wide brown eyes. He couldn’t lie.

“Well, yeah,” he shrugged as best he could while lying down. “But I figured it was normal to wonder about it. Maybe think a few are nice-looking.” Davy shrugged again.

“Well I can’t exactly confirm if it’s normal or not,” Peter said, fiddling with his own fingers that he held above his face.

“I’ve never … I’ve never _fancied_ a guy before, I don’t think,” Davy mumbled, mostly to himself. “Anyway, I just want to be alone.”

Davy gathered up his blanket and left Peter lingering on the patio. He waited a few minutes, shivering a little in the cold, before he went back inside, passing Davy on the way to his room but not saying a word.

Davy ended up sticking around a bit longer. He didn’t talk much and mostly stuck to the corners of rooms and the spot on the couch he had claimed as his own. Peter was able to get him to speak the most, with Micky as a close second, but Mike rarely talked to Davy unless Davy was the one to speak first, which he seldom was. He didn’t think Mike intended to be rude, he just didn’t know much about Davy, and Davy wasn’t exactly forthcoming. It made things difficult. Still, they had their moments – Mike showing him how to play a card game from his childhood, making him lemonade (or hot chocolate on particularly cold days).

Davy had been eyeing off the instruments scattered around the house but had never asked. In the end, he didn’t need to because one afternoon, as he was reading one of the paperbacks he had found lying around the house, Peter, Micky and Mike started setting microphones up, unrolling leads and tuning instruments.

“What are you doing?” Davy asked, looking up from the book.

“We’re rehearsin’” Mike replied, not looking up from the guitar strings he was tuning. “We’re a group called The Monkees. That’s with two ‘e’s.”

“You’re all in a band?” Davy asked, eyes going wide with interest.

“Yeah, I play guitar, Peter’s on bass, and Micky’s our drummer,” Mike explained, though it was obvious with Peter holding the bass and Micky sitting behind the kit. But then again, Davy’s question had an obvious answer.

When they started rehearsal, Mike introduced the songs to Davy as if they were performing for a full crowd. It felt a little awkward at first, watching them practice, but he couldn’t help but smile a little to himself, and as Micky and Peter started joking around more for Davy’s entertainment and Mike tried to reign them in he couldn’t help but laugh and grin in genuine glee. It was the happiest any of them had seen him.

Afterwards Mike went over to Micky, leaning against the wall with his guitar still hanging around his shoulders. He was half flirting, half giving Micky pointers on his drumming. Despite the excitement of getting to hear his friends’ (friends? Acquaintances? People he lived with?) music, he couldn’t deny that he had felt a little left out. It was stupid – he hadn’t known them very long, he was just the weird kid they let stay with them, and he was more than a little scared of his situation being temporary. But still, he longed to be a real part of their group.

They hadn’t talked about when Davy would be moving out. Davy took that to mean that any day now he could be thrown out to fend for himself, and so he kept himself distanced. He found his own meals, kept to himself, and didn’t speak much. However, despite his tentative relationship with his roommates, he was settling in pretty well. He had found a job waiting tables at a diner down the street and was able to start earning some money for himself. He gave some of it to Mike for room and board, while Mike argued that he didn’t have to do that.

It wasn’t like any of the monkees didn’t realise that Davy was acting standoffish – especially Peter. Peter and Davy couldn’t exactly avoid each other, as Davy had moved into his room, and after getting him to open up more, Peter was confused as to why he had regressed back into how he had behaved the first night Micky had found him. Davy had had his moments of laughter and friendly conversations, but now those were even rarer than before.

Micky had been the first one to suggest they do anything about it. Davy was working at the diner during the day when Micky suggested they all go to visit him. The three of them had marched up to the counter in a line, with Micky in the lead.

“We’d like three BLTs, please,” Micky told Davy. Peter nodded behind him.

Davy blushed bright red. “Coming right up.”

Davy waited for them to leave, but they never did. They were waiting for him when he started his break. He had barely untied his apron when Micky called him over. “Hey Davy, come sit with us!”

Davy sat down in the booth next to Peter. Mike was fiddling with the saltshaker.

“How’s your day been, Davy?” Mike asked and Davy thought he could detect a little awkwardness in his voice. He could never be sure if that was just Mike or if that was how Mike was with _him._ Davy didn’t think Mike liked him very much.

“A bit of alright,” Davy shrugged. “Nothing much changes here.”

“Have you had any wacky customers?” Micky asked, leaning close to Mike with wide-eyed intrigue. “Anyone trying to rob you?”

“Well …” Davy began, delving into various stories of odd things that had happened during his shifts, strange customers and things he had seen. At first he had been speaking with his uncomfortable and evasive nature, but as he went along, and Micky was riffing off of him, his regular demeanour melted away and a new Davy was coming through, one that the monkees may be able to get to know better in the future if they could only get him to come out of his cage more. He was a rather confident, boisterous kid, though he didn’t often show it to his roommates. But the laughter from his friends (friends? Acquaintances? People he lived with?) was infectious, and he couldn’t help himself.

Peter smiled at him, a dimple on one side that he couldn’t possibly fake, and Davy felt as included in their group as he had ever been.

It didn’t last very long.

One morning Davy was up early, making himself breakfast. He had a habit of singing to himself when he was alone, and today was no exception. He had one of The Monkees’ songs stuck in his head, and he had sat in on enough rehearsals now that he knew all of the words.

He hadn’t intended anyone to hear, but Mike was always so quiet that Davy didn’t realise he was awake.

“You’ve got a good voice,” Mike commented, making Davy jump in surprise, and he almost dropped the milk he was holding. “And you know our songs.”

“What are you getting at?” Davy asked, a little embarrassed that Mike had heard him. He was ready to go on the defensive. Mike had complimented him, yet he couldn’t quite be sure if it would turn out to be a joke – Davy hadn’t figured Mike out as well as he had Peter and Micky. He could tell when Peter and Micky were riffing and when they were being genuine; he couldn’t with Mike.

“I don’t suppose you would wanna join our little band, wouldja?” Mike proposed. “I know we’re a little unpolished, but we’re tryin’ and – “

“You never asked me before,” Davy interrupted. Davy had seen that Mike was the obvious leader of the band. He had assumed Mike hadn’t asked him because they had never gotten along as well as the others. He figured that, no matter how much Mike tried to hide it, that was evidence that he didn’t want Davy around.

“I didn’t think you’d enjoy it,” Mike shrugged, toying with the cuffs of his shirt.

“But you never asked,” Davy said. Mike opened his mouth, then shut it again. He didn’t say anything, so Davy continued. “Anyway, I don’t want a pity invite.”

“It’s not a pity invite,” Mike said defensively.

“Yes it is,” Davy argued, brows furrowing as his face heated up. “I know it is.”

“How?” Mike asked grumpily, putting his hands on his hips in a gesture that was reminiscent of Davy’s grandfather.

“Because you don’t even want me around,” Davy snapped. “You never have, you just let me stay to make Micky happy.”

“Now that’s not true at all – “

“You never even talk to me about the band, let alone ask me if it’s something I would be interested in,” Davy continued. “You never even talk to me at all.”

“It’s not like you’re very talkative yourself, always avoiding us when we’re trying to help you out,” Mike shot back. But Davy was off on his own tangent and was hardly listening to him.

“You only want to invite me into the group now because you figured I got an alright voice and you can use it to your advantage,” Davy accused, his voice gaining in volume. “You don’t care about me at all.”

“Well, maybe people would start to care about you if you stopped being such an ungrateful little brat!” Mike yelled. Davy managed to not let too many things hurt him too badly over the years, but that had felt like a slap in the face, plain and simple. Mike’s eyes went wide. He had taken things too far too quickly. “Davy, I didn’t mean that.”

“Nice to know how you really feel,” Davy said quietly, resentment dripping from every word. “I didn’t wanna be in your stupid fucking band, anyway.”

Davy stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Mike turned and sat on the couch with his arms crossed and a sullen expression on his face. He always did that; got too heated and said things he didn’t mean. He knew that Davy wasn’t trying to be ungrateful, he just had his own shit he had to work out – Mike understood that well. And yet the words had come out anyway.

“What happened?” Micky asked from the top of the stairs. Mike turned to him.

“I think I scared Davy off,” Mike said. “Me ‘n’ my big mouth.”

Micky walked down the stairs instead of sliding down the banister like he usually did and came to sit next to Mike.

“Tell me what happened,” Micky said. Mike took up his hand and fiddled with his fingers while he spoke.

“I asked him to be in the band and he freaked,” Mike explained. He sighed. “It was probably my own fault for not askin’ him sooner.”

“I can talk to him when he gets back,” Micky offered, watching Mike’s hands. “It’ll be alright.”

“I’m sorry I’m an asshole,” Mike mumbled. “I know you really wanted things to work out with the kid.”

Micky brought up Mike’s hands and kissed his knuckles. “Mike, I would be real concerned if I wasn’t aware you’re an asshole by now,” he smiled. “And Davy’ll be okay, he’s a tough kid. I’ll sort him out.”

Micky waited for Davy all afternoon. It was late when he finally came home. He tried to rush past the couch, but to no avail.

“Hey, Davy,” Micky called, standing up. Davy froze and turned to him.

“Hey, Mick,” he mumbled, looking away. His attempt at hiding had not worked – Micky saw plain and clear the busted lip Davy was sporting.

“Have you been fighting?” Micky asked, reaching out to touch the dried blood on Davy’s lip with his thumb once he was close enough.

“No,” Davy said, his voice sounding strange with Micky still holding his face.

Micky frowned at him, his lips pursed, for a moment before pulling him into the kitchen and sitting him on the bench to tend to his wounds. He had more injuries than just a fat lip: bruises that were forming, cracked knuckles, scrapes on his palms.

“Is this you acting out because of what Mike said?” Micky half asked, half scolded. In his hands was a cloth he was using to clean the blood.

“No,” Davy said again. Micky set the cloth down on the bench beside Davy and frowned in an expression that told him that Micky didn’t believe him. Davy sighed. “I just … I know Mike doesn’t like me very much but … please don’t make me leave.”

Davy’s eyes were welling up with tears as he choked just trying to get the words out. Micky’s frown softened.

“What do you mean Mike doesn’t like you?” Micky asked, his voice quiet and gentle. “You’re his friend.”

Davy shook his head and finally couldn’t hold it back anymore. He broke down into a sob, hiding his face in his hands and batting Micky’s hands away.

“He thinks I’m a brat,” he said from behind his hands.

“He didn’t mean that,” Micky assured Davy, placing his hands on Davy’s shoulders. For once, Davy didn’t shy away from his touch. “Mike’s had a hard life, and when he’s angry he’ll say anything to not be the one who gets hurt – “ Micky let out a small chuckle “ – You two’ve got a lot in common.”

Davy removed his hands from over his face and looked at Micky, his eyes red and puffy.

“Mike just takes a while to get close to people,” Micky explained. “He loves you just as much as the rest of us.”

“You guys love me?” Davy asked, the tears falling from his eyes still. He sniffed and wiped his nose with the cuff of his shirtsleeve.

“Of course, you’re our friend,” Micky smiled, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “And Mike wouldn’t have asked you to be in the band if he didn’t at least _like_ you.”

Davy sighed and looked away.

“I don’t think anybody would wanna hear me sing,” he said. “If I was in the band. I came to America to be a singer, you know. And, well, obviously that didn’t turn out all that well.”

“It’ll be different this time,” Micky promised him, patting Davy’s knees. “You’ve got us to back you up now. We’re in it together.”

Micky cleaned up the rest of Davy’s injuries (and the mess that came with crying) in silence.

It took until Davy and Mike’s shared birthday party for Mike to apologise.

Micky had set up a small little disco ball hanging from the roof of the first floor. It didn’t do much for decoration or ambience, as it was hardly noticeable, but still, an attempt was made. They had all spent the day putting around streamers, making punch, setting out bowls of pretzels and other snacks.

Peter was by the door, greeting guests and handing out glasses of punch. Micky was flitting around the room, talking to everyone he could, his camera in hand. Mike was sitting in the armchair that had been pushed to the wall and sipping his beer. He offered a sip to Davy when he approached, which he accepted.

“I’m sorry I was so rude to you,” Mike said. It had been two weeks since their argument, but Davy supposed it took Mike a while to get up the confidence to apologise. “I had forgotten I hadn’t apologised for that yet.”

“It’s okay,” Davy shrugged, handing back the beer bottle. “I wasn’t exactly very easy to get along with.”

“I should have tried a little harder,” Mike argued, taking another swig of his beer.

“I should have as well,” Davy said. “It’s not often I admit I was wrong, Mike, so let me have this.”

“Fine, you win,” Mike smiled, rolling his eyes, and offering Davy another drink.

“I think I would like to be in the band,” Davy said. “If you would still have me.”

“Of course we would,” Mike chuckled. “Peter’ll be ecstatic.”

As if summoned by Mike speaking his name, Peter appeared next to them, smiling happily. He turned to Davy.

“I want to show you something,” he said, taking Davy’s hand and pulling him outside, down to the beach and away from the noise of the party. They could hear the music playing from the house, quiet in the distance. Peter sat down in the sand, and pulled Davy down to do the same, still not letting go of his hand. He pointed at the sky. “Look at the sunset. Isn’t it pretty?”

Davy let out a light chuckle. “Yeah.”

Peter let go of Davy’s hand and laid down. Davy leaned back on his elbow. “Peter, you’re gonna get sand in your hair.”

Peter only smiled cheekily and pulled Davy down into the sand.

“Hey!” Davy fussed, but he was laughing despite himself. He was in the sand now; he might as well stay there for the moment.

“Are you gonna be staying with us for real?” Peter asked, turning on his side to face Davy. “Like a real roommate?”

Davy’s ears turned red as he blushed, and he looked downward and thought for a moment. “Yeah, I think I will.”

Peter seemed to like his answer. They sat quietly together, watching the sky turn gradually more purple until it was getting too dark to see much. Davy heard a door opening on the balcony behind them, which let the music stream out louder, until it was muted by the door being shut once more.

“The party’s inside, you know,” Micky called to them. Davy sat up and turned to face him. Micky and Mike were making their way over to them, hand in hand now that they were out of view of the party.

“We were watching the sunset,” Davy explained.

Micky and Mike sat down next to them as Davy brushed sand from his hair.

“We should probably get inside now the sun’s gone,” Peter said, “Sorry you missed out, fellas.”

“I wanna stay for a bit,” Micky told them. “It’s nice to get some air.”

So Micky watched Davy and Peter as they began their own conversation, Peter looking up at Davy from where he lay on the sand, Davy leaning back on his palms. Micky leaned his head on Mike’s shoulder and closed his eyes, listening to Davy and Peter talking, the music from the house, the wind blowing in his ears. The sounds of his home. The sounds of his new family.

Had things gone differently he would still be in university right now, reading in his dorm. In another life, Mike was in Texas and Micky was living with his parents still. Peter could have still been in New York, or maybe he would have found some other people to take him in. Who knew where Davy would have been, or what he would be doing. Had things gone differently, they might have gotten by just fine eventually, but still, Micky was endlessly grateful things had gone just the way they did.


End file.
